Things My Father Said

So, it's Father's Day and like most of us I'm sure my thoughts have been full of my father today.

My father was just on old Missouri farm boy. Born at the turn of the century-1903. Born a week after the Wright Brothers made their little flight at Kitty Hawk. Born of a different time and place.

So, I was reading something, and the person involved in the conversation is at the very least a rather strange person. So, having my father in my head I could hear him. "This one is nuttier than a peach orchard boar." Now, that is a colorful colloquialism, and I grew up hearing him say it,and while I knew what he meant by it-today, I went off in search of why that was a saying, because most sayings come from somewhere.

This one has several variations I learned on the internets. Crazy as a peach orchard boar, drunk as a peach orchard boar. It turns out that quite often farmers used pigs to help in the orchard. Pigs root, so pigs would be useful to help keep the ground around the trees from becoming compacted. Trees grow better. Pigs eat, so fruit that dropped to the ground would feed the pigs. Fruit that had been on the ground a while ferments and pigs who ate too many fermented fruits would behave in crazy, humorous ways. I knew what the phrase implied, I just don't think I ever knew why, and now I do.

My father was a soft spoken man, but he always got his point across. If you were someone he considered worthless, or someone who had perpetrated something he considered heinous he would say "That one should have been drowned as a pup."

If the weather was cold and raw-it was "Colder than a well digger's ass" , which made sense. But his "colder than a witches teat" I had to look up, and it is fascinating.
..there's some history behind this wisecrack. A witch's tit (or witch's teat, to use the older spelling) supposedly left a marking
that witch hunters and courts would look for on the body of an accused person. Supposedly, witches would suckle their
familiars, and sometimes the Devil himself, from this "unholy" body part. To find these marks, as well as insensitive spots on the
skin called devil's marks--caused by the Devil's claws or teeth--the suspects were stripped, shaven, then closely examined for
any blemishes, moles, or even scars that could be labeled as diabolical. To find marks invisible to the eye, the examiner would
poke the victim inch by inch with a blunt needle (called a bodkin) until they found a spot that didn't feel pain or bled. Discovery
of these marks or spots--one supposes they would be considered cold since they were a sign of communion with the
Devil--would be "proof" of the person's dealings with Scratch, so they would be shown in full court before the execution.

Now as I read this, it dawned on me, that had someone accused me of witchcraft a few hundred years ago, I would have been executed. I have a polyneuropathy in my legs, feet, and hands. The 'bodkin'  would have found lots of spots on me that could have been used in court.

So, happy Father's Day Papa, and thanks for the lessons. A day is never lost when you have the opportunity to learn something. Only people who die young learn all they need to know in kindergarten.

Peace and blessings,
EB

My Wish For Us All

My wish for us all...

The quote for today is...
Garner up pleasant thoughts in your mind, for pleasant thoughts make pleasant lives.~~John Wilkins~~

Think good things! I can't tell you how many times I have to remind myself of this. Thinking good things will keep me rooted in the now, the present, living in the moment in a way that I can remember that this moment will never come again. Recognizing that our Higher Power is here, right now moving through our everyday activities, no matter how trivial they might seem. The floors need swept, there is a chance to speak to your Higher Power as you move the broom back and forth. I love using the rhythms of life to take a moment to slip into a quick meditation. The dishes need washed, right there is a moment to be thankful for the bounty that provides food in excess. Yes, in excess. One of my favorite spiritual practices is baking bread. I have prayers that fit perfectly the rhythm of kneading dough.
Yes garner up pleasant thoughts. Garner means to gather into storage, to earn, to accumulate, to acquire by effort. So grab onto any pleasant thought that passes, store it away in your memory where you can bring it out when you need something to remind that life is good. Something to remind you of all that you are, and all that you can be. There is in every one of us the ability to give beyond reason. To care beyond hope. To love without limit. To reach, stretch, and dream, in spite of your fears. There is in each of us the ability to give beyond reason, and we do so every day when we take time to encourage and uplift each other. The ability to care beyond hope, as we come together to pray and care about the concerns of each, we expect the best outcome beyond the hope of the seen into the hope of the unseen. We love without limit. All of my friends  from around the world who found each other , loving each other through the day no matter what obstacles and challenges come our way. Reach, stretching, dreaming, knowing that there is a place where we can share those dreams and be encouraged to make them come true.Yes, acquire those pleasant thoughts, store them up, use them liberally to remember, that life indeed is good, and so are you!!

Peace and Blessings,
EB
 

I need One

I am still not functioning very well due to the lingering effects of the shingles. When you have a chronic medical condition, especially a chronic pain medical condition, you have a finite amount of energy. You spend most of that energy dealing with the pain, and the rest of it dealing with everyday necessities of life. So, something as simple as a common cold, or as difficult as the shingles, can wreak havoc with your body, because there simply are no reserves of energy to deal with it.So things like writing a blog tend to not happen, even though you have the best of intentions. Then, the next thing you know you are feeling pretty damn sorry for yourself, and more things in your life get left by the wayside. It is all too easy to start thinking that no one else has things as bad as you-which you know is a crock-but it feels like it some days. Then you start withdrawing into yourself, because honestly who wants to be around someone as miserable as you.


Dang, we tell ourselves some stupid stuff!!! (maybe it's just me that does that)


Truth is we need people, and there are more than likely people in our lives that are missing us.People in our lives that think we are pretty cool.


Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.~~Jane Howard~~


We need others. We may at one time or other stick our noses in the air and sniff "That's OK, I don't need anyone else." But it's a lie, we know it's a lie when we say it, we only say it so that some other person is not allowed to see how badly they are hurting us by leaving us or rejecting us. But, the truth is we need others. We need some people just for a season, and that is OK. They may move into our lives and move out again. But we need others, because we have a need to be loved, but more importantly I think, we have a need to love. Hopefully, we will learn that we have to start by loving ourselves, taking care of ourselves, learning and living the truth about ourselves. This enables us to surround ourself with the right others. When we are operating under the untruths that get stuck in our head, we often surround ourself with the WRONG others, so instead of being strengthened, encouraged, loved, we end up depleted, despairing, and destroyed. When we choose to love ourselves we will create a tribe, a group of others who have our greater good at heart. But when we are choosing to operate outside of love for ourself, we can surround us with toxic, discouraging others.Sometimes, we are that toxic discouraging other,and we need our tribe, clan, friends to help us remember our truths and to love ourselves again.

'Tis the Season

Does it seem as if all of a sudden every where you turn you are encountering rude behavior? If so, believe me you are not the only one. I think it is just a stressful time of year. We have entered the 'holiday' season. Since time began, humans have had celebrations during the winter season, and for good reason. When the winter is upon us, we sometimes need to be reminded that it will not always be dark and the light will return.

So here we are, just a few days from Thanksgiving, and we are already starting to see people running around getting stressed out and being rude and unkind to each other. It is not easy to remain calm when someone is rude, but if we are to reclaim civility and peace for our society, we have to start by reclaiming it in our own lives.

The holidays are hard for us sometimes, in that the reality often doesn't match up with our expectations. We want so much to create either the holidays of our memory or the holidays of Norman Rockwell's imagination. For those of us who don't have halcyon memories to draw on, we think we will make up for it by making sure our loved ones do. For those of us with great memories we compete with trying to accomplish all of those things in a different time. And so we are worn out, frazzled, frustrated.

I think the first place to start to reclaim some peace and tranquility at this time of year is to acknowledge that the Norman Rockwell holiday was a figment of Rockwell's imagination. I love Rockwell's work, but honestly those illustrations were just that- illustrations. Yes, I am sure that there are families and celebrations that look like that, but I am also sure that there are families that don't. So I think we have to allow ourselves to relax and to create what works for us. No more 'keeping up with the Joneses'!

Now my maiden name was Jones, so I have always found the thought of 'keeping up with the Joneses' absurd. Believe me, we weren't worth keeping up with. Holiday dinners at our house were fraught with difficulty.When all of the siblings and their families got together there were bound to be arguments, fights, and just general mayhem. I don't remember a time when everyone was speaking to each other, there was always some point of contention somewhere. One of the memories I laugh at was the year Thanksgiving dinner was at the home of one of my brothers instead of my parents. That brothers wife did not care for me (her loss) and she very cleverly made that known! I happen to have food allergies,in particular coconut and walnuts. On that table there was not one dish that did not include coconut or walnuts. NOT ONE! From the salads to the stuffing to the gravy, some form of coconut or walnut had been included in every recipe. Then she whined because I excused myself from the table without eating anything. My brother yelled at me that I was disrespecting his wife, and as I left the room my family started arguing. Just another family gathering at the Joneses!

So, as we start the countdown to the end of the year, my advice is to relax. All you can do is all you can do. Perhaps it is time to simplify anyway. As we encounter rude people who are stressing out, smile, perhaps say a little prayer that they will be blessed, and remain calm. That guy that just cut you off on the freeway, ask God to bless his life and keep him safe. That cranky neighbor, ask God to pour out blessing on her. That frazzled cashier, thank her for working hard and wish her a blessed day. Whatever you do, do not repay rudeness with rudeness. You only make yourself unhappy when you do that, and the truth is rude people are unhappy people, no need to add to their numbers.

Perhaps remind yourself of the first few lines of the prose poem Desiderata (Latin for desired things)

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit..."

Who knows, perhaps we can reclaim good manners and civility in our time, and if not we can certainly reclaim it for our life!

Let's Go Racing!

Last weekend was a racing weekend. My son and I have season tickets at Kansas Speedway, and yes I have had people question whether that is a good use of our money. I usually answer that if I have to rob a bank, my son will have his Nascar tickets! It is a one of the no compromise parts of our budget. There are only a couple of people who the right to question, and they don't. Our entertainment dollars are budgeted for the Nascar tickets, and the return on investment is priceless.

Nascar is one of my son's sports interests, and it has been very good for his social skills. When we were at Crazy Horse Memorial he was able to have a conversation with a stranger once the subject of Nascar came up. When we go to the Speedway, the other season ticket holders that sit around us no longer notice the things that make him different. In fact, our arrival is eagerly anticipated and my son is warmly welcomed. Everyone is glad to see him.

One of the positive aspects of my son's autism is that when he becomes interested a sport or any other subject he studies it in depth. In fact, I would venture that very few people understand the rules of a sport he is interested in as well as he does. Now that I think about it, it may be a male thing more than an autistic thing. My late husband could give you infinite details about college football teams and players. My son can do the same thing about Nascar. He knows the rules, he knows who owns and  drives every car, he knows every detail of every drivers career. And he knows the rules. So, when we go to the races, the people around us don't see someone who is challenged, they see someone who is knowledgeable. They see someone who can answer any question about the sport, and they look forward to sharing that sport with him.

It is always a joy to go to the races with my son. It is always good for me to see him in a situation where he is admired. Now I personally think he is the most amazing person I have ever known. But, I admit that as his Mom I may be a tad biased, so it is always good for me to see him succeed in a social situation.

Races are a week long round of activities in our lives. There are show cars displayed around town and there are opportunities to meet your favorite driver. We take advantage of as many of these opportunities as we can. One of those opportunities this year was also what I call a divine appointment. Like the young woman I was able to share with at Mt. Rushmore, or the gentleman that talked to my son at Crazy Horse, an opportunity to be in the right place at the right time. We were standing in line at a local grocery store waiting to meet Clint Bowyer. I got in a conversation with the 2 people in front of us in line.

The conversation started off about Nascar. But was soon about something even more important. It turned out that the gentleman was the father of a 9 year old son, a son blessed with autism. As my son was able to hold a conversation with this man about the sport of Nascar, I could see that something even more important was happening. This father had never met an adult with autism, and he was soon sharing with me how important it was for him to be able to talk to my son. To be able to first see my son as a fellow Nascar fan before he saw him as a person with autism.

When we become parents, we dream dreams for our children. The first time you hold that child in your arms, you think of the future.As your child grows from a newborn to a baby to a toddler, you start to imagine what they might be when they grow up. When you start to figure out that there is something different about your child, and then perhaps when you receive a diagnosis you often have to let go of some of those dreams, but you are in uncharted territory, and you don't know what the future is going to look like. So often, we have no frame of reference because we have never met anyone who has faced similar challenges. Standing in line that day, this father met an autistic young man. A young man who was knowledgeable and interesting, and for the first time in a long time this father could imagine a future for his son.

I think that is a great return for our Nascar dollars, don't you? Makes me a very proud Nascar MOM!

Mothers day

My guys were not the best shoppers. So, I would get really sweet Mother's Day gifts like a San Francisco 49'ers ink pen-we live in Kansas City and were die hard Chiefs fans. So, we began a new tradition. I would go shopping for my annuals and soil, and my guys would provide the muscle for me to spend the day planting flowers. Then rather than go out to a crowded restaurant, William would bake a Di Giorno pizza and serve dinner. It became a wonderful tradition. I loved it so much. Amazing how traditions are formed,and how important they become in our lives.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY to all of my followers and readers. You either are a child of a  mother or  a mother or are truly blessed to be both of those things. You may be a friend or an auntie or a neighbor who smiles, but you deserve to feel the love and respect and admiration that comes from those words.

Some Mothers may not hear those words out loud. OH, I could remind my son to say them, but it would sound forced.So, I choose to not remind him. I choose to allow myself to feel true gratitude for the gifts I have received this morning. Brother sun shines brightly in the sky, grandmother oak tree smiles down on me as I sit on the deck next to my orange tree.An 8 foot tall reminder of the faith of a small boy. I choose to feel the love and miracle in a 3 sentence conversation with my autistic young man.Now there is a gift worth treasuring. NOT that I didn't treasure the ink pen all those years ago, in fact I still have it. But I will treasure the ability to have a spontaneous conversation no matter how short or long every single moment of my life. I choose not to feel left out because i do not receive gifts or hear the words. I choose to know and believe that they are there.

I will not feel silly because I was touched by the Mothers Day greetings of a race car driver as he was interviewed in victory lane last night. I will feel the gifting. I will not feel silly that  I wept like a child when I was clicking through the photos that my little sister posted of her incredible beautiful daughters and grandchildren. I wept with joy at seeing her gifts, knowing that she and I are both wonderfully blessed and fortunate Mothers. I felt so close to her as I looked into the eyes of her grandchildren.

I choose to see all of these things as gifts and blessings. Because they are. Being able to share the gifts and blessings of others is definitely a choice, and I choose to feel gifted instead of bereft.So, blessings to all who share their gifts, and to all who can be grateful for those gifts.

Are you feeling alone today? Has someone forgot to call or write? I am so sorry. We will choose to forgive them and pray asking Most High to bless them. Recognise the gifts all around us, thank our Creator for the sunshine, or the rain, or the rainbows. If we are Mothers, thank you Most High, we are humbled by the gift of Motherhood. Thank you Most High for the gift of our mother. Happy Mothers Day to those who need to hear it.

There is a place in all of us that needs to know we belong. Thank you Most High that I know I belong to you. Help me to share that knowledge with all who know me, or have opportunity to see me in my daily life.Thank you that on this Mothers Day I can receive the gift of knowing that I am a child of a Creator who is Mother, Father,related to all, no matter how they believe. We are honored and humbled by the gift.We may forget to say it, but we are grateful.

Happy Mother's day, Most High. Thank you for the choices you provide every day.

Lemon Drops

Merchandising is a science. We are treated to the theories on a daily basis. Why is that cereal on the lower shelf,and the other one on the top shelf. Why is that product next to this product on the display. All ways to tempt us to buy things that we hadn't gone shopping for in the first place. There you are, attempting to navigate the grocery aisle and in your way is a display of something. We've all fallen under the spell of an item we never imagined we needed until some merchandiser worked their magic.

Yesterday, I fell under the spell of one of those incongruently placed displays, and yes, I bought an item that I wasn't thinking of until that moment. But this time I think it must have been a nudge from Sacred Spirit that caused the grocery manager to drop that shipper in that spot. Right there at the end of the laundry detergent/dish soap aisle was a display of small bags of hard candies. Butterscotch, peppermints, and shining as if a spotlight was turned on them, a 4 ounce bag of lemon drops.I reached out and picked up the bag of lemon drops, put the bag in my basket and brought it home with me. This morning, as I sat down to work, I popped a lemon drop in my mouth and was instantly transported from a day of dreary weather and tedious chores to summer days of childhood and the unconditional love of a most amazing woman.

My favorite Auntie loved lemon drops. She carried a bag in her purse and had a bag in the car.Trips with her meant that you would be offered a lemon drop. In fact, you never knew when she would pull the bag out of her purse and offer them around, but you knew that she would.She loved the sweet and sour, there were days that she only kept the drop in her  mouth until the sugar was gone. As kids we cringed when we knew that perhaps she had sucked the sugar off the drops, I think she let us believe that to keep us on our toes.

In that way, isn't life like a lemon drop. Wonderful days with nothing but sweetness, and days that make us pucker from the sour, but the days that are the most important I think are those days that are like that moment when the lemon drop is an exquisite combination of both.

My Auntie was the glue that kept our family together. She taught the most important lessons in the way she lived her life every day. She loved each of us unconditionally, even those of us who weren't particularly lovable. She survived horrible tragedy in her life, and reveled in her blessings. She taught us how to forgive by being forgiving. She forgave some pretty unforgivable things.

She knew great loss. She was pregnant six times. All of her pregnancies were apparently normal pregnancies, lasting the full nine months. But only 2 of her children survived past the first 24 hours of life. Her second child, and her sixth child. How does a woman manage to be pregnant fearing that her baby will die? Of course, in our present time, we have medical technology that can tell us what is happening with our pregnancy. How much harder would it be to know that the child you are loving will not survive. I know young women who have gone through that, and I can't even imagine the strength involved. I asked her how she was able to keep trying, and she just looked at me and said her living daughters were worth it.

She knew great pain, both physical and emotional. Her arms were scarred from burns suffered in girlhood. She was participating in a school Christmas program, and her sleeves caught fire as she placed an ornament on the tree. Trees were lit by candles in her childhood. She suffered months of pain and recovery from  the second and third degree burns on such a large part of her body. Yet, when inevitably a child would point to the scars and ask "Auntie, why do you look like that." She would share how she was burned, but then she would share lovely stories of how her big brother fed her bananas against the doctors orders. She acknowledged that there was pain, but she chose to remember the loving care of her family.

She knew betrayal. She was divorced after 35 years. For reasons the rest of us never understood, her husband left her for another woman. Auntie had forgiven him over and over for being unfaithful. At one point he had an affair with one of her sisters. She forgave him, and she forgave her sister.None of us children had an idea of these things. When, as an adult I brought her my problems,she would never tell me what I ought to do, but  she would share the stories from her life, showing me that life is always about choices. She chose to forgive her husbands affairs because she was a woman of a different time. Had she been a woman of  my generation, she may have had more options and made different choices. But, she was a woman of her generation,and she chose to stay. In her mind it was more important that he was a good provider and good father. She knew that people were imperfect, and felt that he loved her the best he knew how. She remarried a few years later, and had over 20 years with her second husband,who loved her and treated her as if she were a great gift.

My favorite auntie was every one's favorite.She was the favorite sister to each of her siblings.My father was her oldest brother, and he loved and admired her.He was the brother who fed her bananas when the doctored told him they weren't good for her, and it turned out the doctor was wrong. Loving unconditionally was her greatest gift to all of us. It seemed like she took in those of us in her family who were most flawed, and took care of us in such a way that we became better people. We learned from her how to love, how to forgive, and that life is always about choosing to do the best you  know how in each moment, and if you make a bad choice it doesn't keep you from making a better choice the next moment.She taught us that forgiving wasn't about who was right and who was wrong. That when you forgive you give up the right to be right, and you simply offer grace and love.She taught us that life is like a lemon drop. Some days it is sweet, some days it is sour, and if you keep it in your mouth long enough you will be rewarded with that moment when it is the perfect combination of both!

Be good to you

The thought for today...

"We have to learn to be our own best friends because we fall too easily into the trap of being our worst enemies."~~Roderick Thorp~~

I saw this in my newspaper this morning, and immediately knew it was worth using. I all to often will be critical of myself. I am learning to use the webcam on my new laptop. I have never made a video of myself , and it is something I can use to communicate with the ladies that post to my daily Weight Watcher's message board thread, my friends on facebook, and when I get it down, even here on my blog. So I am looking at my first effort, and I am picking it to pieces when this quote came to mind.

I am sure we are all guilty of this. Something doesn't work for me and I think "Oh my God I am such an idiot." or "I screw up everything." The truth is I am not an idiot, and I don't screw up EVERYTHING. More importantly, I would never say to a friend "You are such an idiot." I also said to myself this morning watching the video, "You look like crap."  Now is there ANYONE I would say that too? NO! So I must stop saying that to myself.

Become our own best friend. When we hear negative things in our head, or like me when I say it out loud, we must STOP. We must think, what would I say to Diana, or Cheryl. What would you say to EstherBelle? Now, say those things to your self. Start believing those things about yourself. Treat yourself as a trusted, loved friend . Start believing things like "I deserve to be treated well.", "I am a great friend not only to others but to myself."

Extend the hand of friendship, to others, but most importantly to you!

Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle

Equal Time

Well, I really must tell some stories of my little mama, equal time and all of that.

Talking about Mother is totally different than talking about Papa. I occasionally called her little Mama, especially if I was talking about her, but usually I called her Mother.Her grandchildren called her Mom-she didn't like to be called grandma. Mother was a lot more complex person than my father. Not as easy to get a handle on most days. She would look you in the eye and truthfully tell you her age, or her weight. But she would lie about her height. Mother was probably just a tad less than 5 foot tall. As she aged she shrunk down to about 4'10". But all of her adult life, she would tell people she was 5' 3". Now, everyone knew that wasn't true, but you did not contradict my little Mama. So, even though I was taller than her by the time I started kindergarten, Mother continued to claim that she was 5' 3". I asked her once, when I was a brash young teen, why she told people she was taller than she really was. She looked up at me as if I were an alien from outer space, calmly said "I am 5' 3" tall, I always have been." That was the last time I brought up the subject.

I was 6' tall by the time I was a teen, and 6' 1" before I stopped growing taller. People would look at us when we were together, of course, commenting on my size, and Mother would tell them "Shoot, she'd be 7' tall if she didn't have so much tucked under for feet." or "I grew her that tall on purpose. The man who built my kitchen cabinets was 7 foot tall, I wanted to find out what he might have left on the top shelf."

Mother was sometimes a difficult woman. She raised 6 children, and as we grew older there may never have been a time when she was speaking to all 6 of us at once. She had a bit of a mean streak sometimes, and she seemed happiest when she was surrounded by drama. Now this doesn't mean she wasn't the best parent she knew how to be. I think in those days most parents were doing the best they knew how. They were so wrong sometimes, but I honestly believe it was because of the times we grew up in, and not necessarily maliciousness on the part of our parents. My Mother may have been a strict disciplinarian at home, she may have exerted total control, but do not let a teacher or other adult pick on or treat one of her children unfairly. Little mama became a giant in those situations.

One of my favorite stories is told from her perspective and mine. My 1st grade teacher was not the best teacher in the world. I was a complication for her, and she would write notes home to my mother. Mother told everyone that she thinks I was born knowing how to read and write, because she certainly didn't remember teaching me and according to her I was reading at age 2. I think she probably wasn't exaggerating too much, because I do not remember when I didn't know how. Well, my kindergarten teacher thought I was a bit of a problem, probably because I would get bored and rather than napping preferred to spend time reading. In first grade, we started learning to print our letters. The issues arose because I already could write, in cursive, and except for the printing lessons, would write that way. So a letter from my teacher would go home with me, and Mother would respond with a lengthy letter back. I suppose it would have been too easy to call each other.

The teacher wanted Mother to tell me that I wasn't allowed to write in cursive. It seems it caused a problem for the teacher because the other students saw me do it. Mother apparently wrote back that the teacher should not be showing my work to the other students and that I was to be allowed to carry on. Well, that letter must have amused my teacher, because I was on the playground during recess when my teacher and another teacher called me over and asked me in not kid friendly terms who my Mother thought she was. In the middle is not a comfortable place for a 6 year old to be. Mother ended up in the Principal's office, and according to her the principal, Mr. Johnson, started explaining that first grade children could not be allowed to write in cursive because, as told by Mother, "We use slim pencils when we teach children to write in cursive, Mrs. Jones, and at 6 years old the muscles in their little hands aren't strong enough to hold a slim pencil." The next thing my mother said was a question, "You don't have any idea which child is mine, do you Mr. Johnson?" He admitted as much and mother told him to call me to the office and that the conversation would not continue until I got there.

Now I knew my mother had planned to speak to the principal that day, and so when the call came to my teacher and she sent me to the principal with a smirk on her face I was a bit anxious by the time I was ushered through the swinging gate into the inner offices. I was escorted into the Principal's office by the school secretary, and my little mama came and stood shoulder to shoulder with me.I was about 1-2 inches taller than her. Then she said "Tell me again, Mr. Johnson,  about the muscles in her little hands." Mother grabbed my 'little hand' and said we were leaving. She asked me where my class was, we marched down the hall, she went in the classroom, the teacher sputtering that she was disrupting the class. Mother told her not to worry, it wouldn't happen again. Mother cleaned out my desk, and we went home. I was transferred to a different school a couple of days and some phone calls to the school board later. My Mother may have had issues with her children, but she was always our staunchest supporter when it came to others having issues with us.I still miss my mother, especially when my son does something amazing. I will think, I should call my little mama. I learned a lot about advocating for my very special child from my mother advocating for me.

I also learned to say I love you to the people I love. It was something I never heard growing up.It was a different time. My parents didn't say it to each other or to us children. I think it would have made quite a difference if I had known how much they loved each other when I was young. I know how much of a difference it would have made if I had known if they loved me.I was blessed that both of my parents died at home in my arms. It may not have felt like a blessing at the time, but as I look back it was. I was able to say good bye to them, knowing that I had forgiven them, and hoping that they had forgiven me. But, no matter, I know that they were loved, and surrounded by love as they crossed over. I wish my husband had not died alone in a car on a freeway. But I know he knew he was loved, and I knew he loved me. We had the opportunity to say that to each other a couple of hours before he was killed by a young woman with almost twice the legal limit  blood alcohol count.My husband and I told each other that we loved each other dozens of times a day. William would turn around, and roll his eyes when would 'make out' in the kitchen. But he knew his parents loved each other, and he knew he was loved, because we told him every day. I still do, I always will.

Some of my favorite stories of my father

Even though my father was very stern and reserved with me, I do still have some very good memories of him.

This one starts out hard, but ends up with a great line...
I had to pretty much run away from home to go to college. My father forbid me going, and I ended up living at home a couple of years until I turned 18 and could leave on my own.My mother understood it was something I had to do, and I think that is because she couldn't afford to go to college when she graduated from high school in 1930. So, I turn 18, and I am on my way to the bus station to head to college. The last thing I hear my father say to my mother is that "Nothing good will come of this, she'll go off and come back pregnant." He had such faith in me! So of I went to college, majored in theatre, ended up working in theatre and radio, won awards in both careers. My father saw me on stage one time, and heard me on the radio once. A few years later, when their health was failing, Papa had congestive heart failure, emphysema,and Alzheimer's. Hard to believe, this was a man who retired from a roofing company at 65, and went back to work at the roofing company at 67, and the young guys couldn't keep up with him. He fell off a roof when he was 73, around Halloween. He broke his hip and had surgery to implant screws and a rod the first of November. Doctors said he would take 8 months to a year to walk again. On January 1st, we were watching the news and there was a fire at the company where he had worked for 50 years. He said "They're going to need everyone and went back to work on January 2nd. He worked for several more years, until the Alzheimer's got bad enough that he couldn't work anymore.But I digress...when his health was getting worse and he and mother couldn't manage on their own anymore, I left my career in radio and back to California to take care of them. I did not know at that time that I was pregnant. After I had been there a couple of months it became obvious I should see a doctor, and I was shocked to learn that I was expecting. Remember what my father said when I left for college? Well here it was decades later,I was an award winning actress, designer,and broadcast news director, afraid to tell my father that I was pregnant because I was his old maid daughter. So, I call my little sister (two years younger than me) who was a married mother of two. My sister tells my mother, and my mother goes in to tell my father while I sit on the porch. It is late summer, and the windows are open and I can hear my mother telling my father what the doctor had said and the next thing I hear is my father's voice..."I told you if we let her go off to college this would happen, she came home pregnant."

Did you notice that I was his old maid daughter? This is one of my favorite stories. I was working at a theatre on my 25th birthday. We didn't have a phone back in the costume shop, so if there was a call someone would have to come get us. So it is the afternoon of my 25th birthday, here comes the office girl who says "You have a phone call, it's you're father." My father? My father never calls. He always has my mother call, even his favorite sister. He will talk on the phone  but he never makes the call. Assuming the worst, that something is wrong with Mother I run to the office to answer. I pick up the phone and say hello. My father says hello, and I ask him if everything is OK. Is something wrong with mother? Here is the rest of the conversation...

"No, your mother is fine, I wanted to talk to you."

"Is everything OK?"

"Do you know what today is?" 

"Yes, sir, it's my birthday."

"Do you know how old you are?"

"Yes, sir, I am 25."

"What did you do last night?"

"We had a show, I worked."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"We have a  show Papa, I am working."

"Did you get married since the last time we talked to you?"

"No, sir, you know I didn't."

"Are you sure? Do you have plans to get married tonight?"

"Yes, sir.I am sure.No, sir, no plans to get married.""

"Do you know what it means when a  girl turns 25 and she's not married?"

"No, sir, I don't."

"It means you are an old maid.If you turn 25 and you're not married you are an old maid. there has never been an old maid in my family.I'll be the first one to have an old maid daughter.Do you know what happens when you turn 35 and you're not married?"

[By this time I am laughing]
 "No, sir, I don't know."

"If you turn 35 and you're not married,and it doesn't look like you're going to be,at 35 you become the little old lady who lives on the corner."

[I am really laughing now]
"Papa, I am 6'1" and weigh over 300 pounds, I hardly think I will be a LITTLE old lady."

"It doesn't matter, at 35 you become the little old lady who lives on the corner. I won't be able to hold my head in my family."

And then he hung up. I am not sure to this day whether he was serious, but once again I did not disappoint my father. I was 47 when I married. I wish he had still been alive to come!

Here's the last one I will share today. I only talked back to my father twice in my life. The first time was when I was 13, and it was the last time he whooped me with the leather strap. It had to do with me sassing my mom, and that was NOT allowed. The second time, I was 22. It was the night before my sister's wedding. For reasons that don't really matter anymore, my father had decided he was not going to the wedding. My sister was hurt. Some in the family thought he didn't want to get dressed up. He wore bib overalls every day of his life. I only saw him dressed up in slacks and jacket one time. But my sister didn't care if he came in his overalls, she just wanted him to come. One of our older brothers would be walking her down the aisle because of my father's stubborn stand.So, since we are all busy getting ready for the wedding, it is decided that we would go pick up some take-out food. I ask my father to go with me, and he does. While waiting I get my nerve up and I say to him "I am going to say this and you can whip me if you want, but you are going to that wedding." "No, I'm not," he answers. "Yes, old man," I say, "you are going to that wedding if I have to knock you out and take you there myself." Nothing more was said, the food came and we took it home. We all went to the wedding the next day, and left him at home. We got dressed, and the music started.As the maid of honor I start down the aisle just before my sister, and there in the last pew, sitting on the aisle, was an old man in bib overalls. I looked him in the eye and smiled. He did not smile back. My sister, who had not cried yet that day started crying when she saw him. So, later as I drove him and mother home from the reception,a reception where he had a great time and maybe got a little tipsy, he said to me "you were right, but don't you ever talk to me that way again."  I never spoke back to him again.

The morning he died, his mind was amazingly clear. I had him up and bathed and dressed in his beloved overalls. he was playing with my son, who was about a year old. Papa told my son he loved him, then looked at me and said "He's going to grow up to be a fine young man, I wish I was going to be around to see it."

I treasure those words, and I miss my father, and I wish he were here to see that his words are true. My son is an amazing young man, and I tell him the stories of my father.

More Remembering

My father has been on my mind lately. Maybe it's because of the holidays, or that December is his birthday month. Whatever the reason I have been remembering him. If he were alive he would have turned 107 years old a couple of weeks ago. He was a simple man, born in a different time. He did the best he knew how to do when he was raising us. Many things he did were wrong, but he thought he was doing the right thing, doing the best he could, and so as I matured it was easy to forgive him.

Forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves. When we forgive someone we give up that need to have someone acknowledge that we were right and they were wrong. But, as you grow and mature you come to that place where you know that you do not need that acknowledgement because being right is good enough. So you let go of the need, and the power it held over you, and you are liberated.

I forgave my parents, and then when they grew older, I took great care of them. I loved my father.He was a good man and many people admired and cared about him. He would say he was a simple farmboy from Missouri, but he was more than that.He had been a muleskinner before he joined the army. Here in Kansas City he would shoe horses and mules, and he kept that occupation in the army. He had a long ugly scar on his shin that he got when a mule that he was putting ice shoes on kicked him. The ice shoes were for working the mules on the frozen Missouri river. He had left school after 8th grade to help support his family. He was the oldest of 8 children, and he took his role as oldest seriously. When my grandfather became ill my father helped take care of them by going to work.He had an amazing, strong work ethic. When work became hard to find in the 1920's he joined the army.

Towards the end of his stint in the army he was based in Southern California. A few months before his discharge he met my mother. He always told the story of how they met and why they married. My mother was a waitress in a diner that was owned by a married couple. My father was a bit of a rogue, a rake in those days and had been seeing the married woman. Then he met my mother and asked her out and she said no. So, he stopped seeing the married woman and asked my m other out again. She went out with him, to the car races on a Sunday afternoon. The next day, when her married boss found out that she had gone out with my father, my mother was fired.My father always said he married her because he had made her lose her job.

That was part of the story. When my grandfather found out why my mother lost her job, she was locked in her room. Locked in her room, at 20 years old because she had gone out with a 28 year old man who had been fooling around with a married woman. While she was locked in her room, my father wrote her beautiful love letters, smuggled in to her by her old maid aunt who helped raise her after her mother died. Eventually, my grandfather relented,and my mother and father married. Of course, we never knew about the love or the love letters growing up.I wish we had known about that side of him. We found those after we lost our parents. My father passed first, a month before their 54th wedding anniversary. I was blessed that he passed in my arms at home. He would have hated being in a nursing home. At home I could help him go outside and to his workshop.

My mother passed 18 months later, also at home in my arms. We say she passed from a broken heart. She saw no reason to remain on the earth without my father.Her children were grown, and she needed him. It took her 18 months, because I was doing my best to take good care of her. But, she sat on her couch and grieved herself to death, where I am sure she was met by my father.

At first I was angry with her. I was taking really good care of her. How dare she will herself to die. But, I have forgiven her, and asked her forgiveness. As a recent widow, I get it. I get how you can be so in love, and loved so deeply that you want to be with him, even if that means you have to be with him on the other side.

I hope that my husband has met my father on the other side. I always thought that my father would have been great friends with my husband. I believe that I shall see them all again some day. But as much as I miss my husband, and I now know what a broken heart truly feels like, I have work to do here. I didn't get 54 years, I only got 11. But, my son still needs me, and so I will take good care of myself as I take care of him.

I will honor them by telling their stories, our stories. I will honor them by making sure that my son saw how much his parents loved each other, and that he knew he was loved.I will honor them and forgive myself and them by remembering. My faith keeps me strong, and yet I feel so weak. Grief is the hardest thing I have ever done.

Please, if you know someone who is grieving, let them honor their loved ones by telling the stories. I believe you will be blessed.

Traditions

Today is Christmas Eve. In our family that means that my son is in charge of the kitchen. Not a bad tradition! I can hear the dishwasher going as I type. We came up with this tradition because I was a working mother- well we all are, but I went back to work full time outside the home when my son started middle school.We were attempting to establish new traditions for our new family. The first couple of years, I would get home from work on Xmas Eve, tired, but I would fix dinner and attempt to go to the movies with my husband and my son. We had the beginnings of a lovely tradition, but as most traditions do, it needed some tweaking to become just right for us.

 I worked in a huge grocery store. I would finish the midnight shift on the 23rd, and then go back in and work the day shift on the 24th. By the time we closed the store at 6:00 pm, took care of all the customers, and allowed the teammates a few minutes to grab that last item, it was often close to7:00 by the time I got to my car.I would drive home, tired. So, the next year we decided that we would just have pizza for dinner, and if I called home just before I headed to the car, it could go in the oven. We also decided that Xmas day was a good time for a movie if I wanted to stay awake. My son had begun  the habit of baking cookies while I was at work, and so that grew to include the pizza, and then to include his being in charge of the kitchen. He would wait for me to call, and by the time I got home, changed my clothes, and sat down in my recliner to put my feet up dinner would be ready and he would serve Mom and Dad. Then he would finish his cookie baking, while Mom and Dad wrapped presents in their room. It became a lovely way to spend the evening.About the time the gifts were wrapped, the cookies were done, and the three of us would have time together enjoying warm cookies and cold milk. The dishwasher would run again as the plate for Santa was prepared, and then our family would be snuggled in our beds.

We are, once again, in the process of allowing our traditions to evolve to fit our circumstances. This year it is just the two of us once again. This year Mom is again an at home Mom. Because of my health, I am no longer able to stand on my feet and check out hundreds of customers a day, in fact I am no longer able to work outside the home. Because of financial problems this year, there won't be any gift wrapping. But, we will be able to share our kitchen traditions. Today, my son is in charge of the kitchen, and our house is filled with the wonderful aromas of years gone by mixed with a new aroma. My cookie baker makes 2 different recipes every year. He makes the original recipe that he brought home from school all those years ago, and then he bakes a new recipe-either a recipe he has created, or one that caught his eye in a magazine or on the back of the packaging from one of his ingredients. This year the new recipe involves cinnamon chips, and we are eagerly looking forward to trying them.

I hope that you and those you care about have traditions.Traditions are an important way to bridge the gap between generations, to enlarge your tent and bring new people into the circle of your hearts.Traditions are an important way to share memories, to make memories, and to anticipate new memories the next time you act upon the tradition.Tradition is a way that our families, our friends,our communities can stay connected one to another.Tradition can be the way that we remember what it is to love and to be loved. In our house, a boy who was born blessed by autism did not have the ability to tell us with words that he loved us, so he learned to bake cookies.

Peace and Blessings,
EstherBelle